


The Mark of a Good Sith

by longsufferingsigh



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Age Difference, Canon-typical Slavery, M/M, Minor Darth Marr/Darth Vowrawn, Old Sith in Love, Power Imbalance, Sith Politics, Sith Shenanigans, Threesome - M/M/M, Topping from the Bottom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-11-03 04:45:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10959942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longsufferingsigh/pseuds/longsufferingsigh
Summary: Darth Vowrawn spies promise in young Cytharat.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t dedicated this much effort in writing in actual years but Vowrawn is worth it.

Korriban was exceptionally frigid today.

Darth Vowrawn would call it bracing.

After having spent the last few hours rattling off the annual budget plan, he needed something to lift his spirits. The attendance of Dark Councilors tended to flounder this time of year. It was practically a holiday and he would have been happy to treat it as one himself if Darth Marr wasn’t so insufferably diligent.

Always present, always punctual, and _never_ asleep behind that mask. Definitely not. _Never_ the great Darth Marr.

Vowrawn gave a snort, startling an acolyte who hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadow of the statue. Amused, he watched her bow her head and quicken her pace. Fifty years and the novelty still hadn’t rubbed off. He enjoyed the attention. It came with being a social magnet and not a terror like Ravage whose temper evoked hysteria more than deference.

Unseemly. Where was the panache?

Vowrawn spotted sleek, silver hair bobbing up the steps. Why, here he was.

Vowrawn pressed himself closer to the statue and carefully blanketed his presence, waiting until his quarry passed him. He propelled forward. “Surprise!”

Darth Gravus didn’t so much as bat an eyelash as he latched to his arm. “Still beating that dead horse?”

“If it worked once…”

Gravus raised his eyes upwards praying for strength as Vowrawn cheerfully rattled on about their academy days– how Gravus nearly gutted him like a fish the first time they crossed, how the overseers had to keep them in separate dorms following the incident, how the two of them had been rivals until a _compromise_ was made inside a second-floor utility closet, and how the overseers had to keep them in separate dorms again for all the racket they made—

“Are you proposing we recreate our first time?” Gravus interrupted. “I’ll have to disappoint you. I can’t lift you up without killing my back.”

“Nothing so pedestrian,” Vowrawn huffed. “You could at least try to play along. I’ve had a dreadful day as is.”

“Ah, Darth Marr was in attendance again?”

“He’s doing it to spite me,” Vowrawn said peevishly. “He thinks I’m up to no good in my free time.”

It was truly a mark of their bond that Gravus made no attempt to take the bait. Disappointing.

“You never relax,” he replied. “Even when you sleep. Business is your pleasure. You capitalize your time and effort. Which begs the question: why else are you here?”

“Can’t a man spend time with his oldest and dearest friend?” Vowrawn asked innocently.

Gravus gave him a long-suffering look.

Vowrawn chuckled and leaned heavily on his companion. “I’m in the market for a new apprentice if you must know,” he said.

Gravus’s mouth twitched. “As am I.”

“What are the chances! I hear there’s a promising batch of acolytes this month. I wanted a sneak peek.”

“What are the chances, indeed…” Gravus said, narrowing his eyes. “You still have Qet, don’t you? He could just as easily do this for you. There’s no reason to get your hands dirty.”

“I might as well stamp my name on his forehead,” Vowrawn drawled. “They all know who he serves. It’s counterproductive. Besides, I thought you could use the company.”

Gravus raised an eyebrow. “I should be so lucky.”

“How is dear Thana?” Vowrawn simpered. He gave Gravus’s hand a brief squeeze before those brown eyes could harden. “I’m only teasing.”

“She’ll be back,” Gravus said dismissively. “Until then, an extra pair of hands would not go amiss. I don’t have time or the appropriate people to run other operations.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Really?”

They stopped short in front of the ancient obelisk that dwarfed the room but they might as well have been standing beside rubble for all the attention they drew. Overseers and acolytes alike stared at them as they passed. Whether it was out of curiosity, awe, or fear it mattered not. No one, not even a fresh initiate, could be heedless of their power.

“You’ve always spoke so highly of Qet,” Gravus continued. “I thought he was more than capable.”

“He’ll never lack in enthusiasm,” Vowrawn said. “But I want someone with more finesse. More guile. Someone able to move about without riding any coattails. Chiefly, _mine_.”

“An assassin.”

“Of sorts.”

“A glorified errand boy.”

“You’re so sure it’s going to be a boy.”

“You have a track record. And a predisposition.”

Vowrawn pulled a face. “Sith in glass houses should not throw lightning.” With that, he broke away to head down the lower hallways.

“And just where are you going?” Gravus caught up to him and grabbed him by the elbow. “The acolytes are upstairs with Cestus.”

Vowrawn shook off his hand. “The academy has more than one room, you know.”

“There aren’t any ‘rooms’ where you’re going. Only slave pens.”

“Semantics.”

“Slaves, aliens, and Harkun’s ilk.” Gravus sneered as though the words left a bad taste in his mouth. “They are not worthy of your time. You shouldn’t be seen with them.”

Ah, there it was. Rearing its ugly head again. Always so quick to discard diamonds in the rough.

Vowrawn made a dismissive noise. “By all means, head upstairs if the muck scares you. I have other robes and a strong stomach.”

He really ought to stop baiting the man but he wanted his company and a second opinion once they got around to reaching the training room.

Good student that he was, Vowrawn had done his homework before coming to the academy. The subject had changed but the principle was relatively the same. Analyzing class rosters, weighing each potential’s strengths and weaknesses, predicting the likelihood of improvement—he had done so in his youth to help cull his competition early. Now, it would help in preserving where it mattered.

But numbers and secondhand information only painted broad strokes. Something like this required a deft hand, a critical eye, and—

Vowrawn paused briefly as he was hit with a potent smell of battle and musk.

— apparently, his nose too.

His interest only intensified when he slipped into the training room amidst the fracas of clashing vibroblades and curses. He leaned against the doorjamb right beside a ragged training dummy while Gravus lurked just out of sight near the doorway, clearly too proud to step further inside but apprehensive about letting Vowrawn out of his sight.

Darling man.

There was suddenly a ferocious snarl and Vowrawn was immediately drawn back to the other occupants in the room.

A Zabrak with dusky orange skin and a web of black facial tattoos had launched himself at another acolyte, nearly toppling them both. The strength of his attack belayed his lanky form. There was no technique in his attacks just raw instinct. This clearly wasn’t his first fight though. His response to the other acolyte’s flurry of swings was almost immediate, weaving side to side, managing to dodge all attacks— save one.

The Zabrak stumbled back with another curse as the vibroblade landed a blow on his upper arm. Tricked by a clever little feint by a surprisingly proficient swordsman.

And, _hello_ , what a dashing swordsman it was.

Vowrawn’s nose twitched as he scented the air again. There was no missing a fellow Sith pureblood, especially one battered, bruised, and drenched in sweat. There were deep shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights and long training hours but in the heat of the duel, those yellow eyes shone bright as gold.

His steps were more certain than the Zabrak’s, more practiced and quick, but there was a pattern to his movement. His eyes kept darting to the position of his blade, he constantly corrected his posture, and his lips moved soundlessly to form… encouragement? Or was he reciting instructions? Right foot forward, lunge, disengage, parry, advance, retreat, advance, advance.

The footwork did look pretty if one ignored how much ground he lost for it.

“What is he doing here?” Gravus muttered. “Blood as blue as he is red… what is he trying to prove pitting himself against slaves?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Vowrawn said absently. His gaze remained fixed on the young Sith pureblood, admiring his lean but strong figure as he pressed another attack.

“Beg—oh.” Comprehension flickered in Gravus’s eyes as he reexamined the young Sith pureblood more closely. Tailored robes. Perfect posture. A fondness for jewelry.

Vowrawn’s eyes crinkled in amusement when Gravus gave him a sidelong look. Why, yes darling, the similarity _was_ uncanny. It tickled his interest and, admittedly, his vanity too.

“A boy like that doesn’t accidentally find himself in a slave pen,” Gravus said slowly. “A fall from grace?”

“Oh, most certainly.”

“How far up?”

“Very.”

Gravus clucked his tongue disapprovingly. _“Politics.”_

Vowrawn stifled a laugh and crossed his arms. “Politics,” he agreed. Such was the capricious life of the Sith aristocracy. Hosts of houses could be made and unmade over mere trifles. The pretense, the promises, the scandal—it always upset Gravus’s nouveau riche sensibilities. Ho hum.

It was disappointing but perhaps it was for the best. Politics, while entertaining, demanded the highest stakes for the greatest rewards and he was not ready to surrender his favorite just yet. He’d invested so much in him, after all. He had aged so well and was clever enough to keep him amused after all these years. Losing him would be a terrible waste.

The duel carried on a great deal longer. Neither acolytes would yield despite the toll it was taking on them. Their footwork became less steady, every swing seemed to shave a week off their very lifespan, and drawing breath was its own labor. So wrapped up in wearing each other down, they still had yet to even notice their audience. Incredible.

“That boy.” Gravus indicated the Sith pureblood with a raised chin. “Caught your eye, has he?”

Vowrawn raised his brow. “Perhaps.”

“I heard Malgus has designs on him already.”

Vowrawn finally tore his gaze away to give him an odd look. Darth “Gossip is For Spinsters” Gravus?

“You aren’t the only one who likes to know things,” Gravus said dryly. “Besides, do you really want to make an enemy of that man?”

Vowrawn smiled. “I love it when you fuss over me,” he said. “Have no fear. I know what I’m doing.”

He waited until the Zabrak pressed an advantage over the Sith pureblood, virtually throwing all his weight behind one last desperate attack. The Sith pureblood stumbled down to one knee, chest heaving, arms trembling, and he seemed to brace for a blow that would knock him clean out.

Which, no doubt, would have been his fate if Vowrawn hadn’t chosen that precise moment to loudly clear his throat.

The Zabrak gave a start and whirled around—only to trip on his opponent’s vibroblade and land face-first into the sweat soaked mat.

Gravus wrinkled his nose.

Vowrawn smothered his chuckle with a cough and scampered out the room, shoving lightly at Gravus to pick up the pace before the young Sith pureblood could catch sight of them.

It wasn’t until they were both entrenched in the second-floor library that Vowrawn allowed himself to laugh. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“The _boy_.”

Gravus rubbed his chin as he mulled over this. “He’s pretty,” he said at length. He suddenly glanced at Vowrawn. “He looks like you when you were his age.”

Vowrawn’s lips quirked up into a playful smile. “You thought I was pretty?”

“There were other things that came to mind when I thought of you.”

“Disgusting,” Vowrawn crooned.

Gravus smirked. “Truthfully,” he went on. “His pedigree is plain. He must have come out of preparatory school with high marks. If not, I wonder how he hasn’t choked on the silver spoon in his mouth yet. It must be small then if he’s still sorted with aliens. Politics. Everything to lose and little to gain. But then…” He gave Vowrawn a sidelong look. “You already know all this, don’t you?”

Vowrawn only smiled.

“Is this you testing my good sense again?” There was a touch of annoyance in his voice. “Or do you really intend to make the boy your apprentice?”

“Perhaps.” If anything, the demonstration today also kindled an interest in the Zabrak but Vowrawn kept that thought safely to himself. Gravus had a limit in tolerating his _eccentricities_.

“What is his name? The boy.”

“Cytharat.” More a title than a name. Much like Vowrawn had inherited his from his own father.

Gravus wrinkled his nose. “My condolences.”

“It’s from the Old Tongue. It’s _lovely_.”

“As I’m sure you’ll describe ‘it’ once you’re through with him.”

“Cestus is calling,” Vowrawn huffed. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Gravus answered with a knowing smirk before departing. Vowrawn chalked this up as a tie.

Despite all the unsavory rumors of his private life, he seldom dabbled with men as young as Cytharat. Youth had its advantages but when it came to romance, they tended to fall in love too easily and it was more trouble than it was worth disentangling from them. Qet was evidence enough of that.

But that wasn’t to say he couldn’t indulge himself once in awhile.

With a little skip in his step, Darth Vowrawn made his way back downstairs, acolytes scattering in his wake.

 

* * *

 

Cytharat held Harkun’s stare in the thundering silence that followed.

He had already taken a sound beating in the training room. His pride could withstand a little more.

After dragging themselves to the nearest refreshers to scrub off the worse of the grime, he and Haresh were immediately summoned to Harkun’s office. More acolytes had huddled in the closed space before but their numbers had dwindled in a matter of weeks. Now it had come down to just four of them.

Haresh was a formidable rival, more so because he prevailed despite the deck stacked against him, and Cytharat respected him for it. The feeling was not mutual. Harkun had seen fit to drive a wedge between them at every turn. He was intent upon driving Haresh into the ground and considered Cytharat’s predicament with little more than a sneer.

There was no honor in being handed someone else’s accolades but Harkun had done so time and time again. It wasn’t even out of favoritism so much as ease. Cytharat just happened to be the nearest receptacle. He had tried to explain it to Haresh once the Zabrak had dragged himself out of the lower wilds.

Haresh had glowered at him. “You never turned them down.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

Haresh’s laugh was devoid of humor. “Right, because you know how that feels more than me.”

No. They’d never be friends.

The Sith Academy was a treacherous path to navigate alone. Cytharat endured but he had his limits.

Haresh was stone-faced as Harkun’s hurled insults at him, while Cytharat stood to the side watching with a tired detachment.

“—any wonder why I have to suffer when you can’t amount to anything more than an animal,” Harkun snapped. “Even against the lowest Sith, you fail. What good is being an animal if you can’t even hold your own against a few swats—”

“No.” Cytharat could not stomach the indignity.

A terrible hush fell upon the room.

Haresh was giving him an odd look. Harkun had gone tight lipped with anger as he suddenly turned to glare at him.

“No,” Cytharat said in a low voice. “Haresh would have won.”

Harkun’s eyes narrowed. “Modesty will get you nowhere.”

“It is a fact.”

“Then it is a wretched lie. Are you a liar, boy, or just a fool?”

An insult sat heavily on Cytharat’s tongue. It pressed tight behind his teeth. He need only open his mouth.

Harkun stared into his face expectantly. “Well?”

Cytharat stared back at his overseer and felt his disapproval bake on his skin. Foolish. One step to completing his trials. One step to breaking free of the humiliation. He had inherited a legacy of soul crushing shame, what was a little more? It was only temporary and—and _mother_. To disappoint her would… to have come so far, to have sacrificed what favors they had left for nothing—

Cytharat lowered his eyes and swallowed.

Harkun’s smugness was almost palpable. “I thought so.” He turned his back to him. “Spineless like your old man.”

Oh no.

Bile rose in his throat. “And are you spineless, overseer, or just a fool?”

Harkun went ramrod straight as though he were hit with a bolt of lightning. He turned back ever so slowly, his eyes brimming with murder. “What did you say to me?” he whispered.

Mother was going to skin him alive. “Haresh would have won,” Cytharat said. “He is strong, he has potential to be Sith, he is an asset. We stand to gain nothing from squandering power.”

“You dare tell me how to do my own job, acolyte?”

“Someone must.”

Harkun reddened. His knuckles audibly popped as his hands curled into fists.

Cytharat resolutely held his gaze and braced for the brunt of his rage. He was only distantly aware of Haresh stepping to the side. Out of firing range.

Smart.

His tongue swiped out to wet his cracked lips. He wondered if his punishment would be greater if he threw up his own protective barrier.

The tension was thick and crackled with energy—or perhaps that was just the lightning between Harkun’s fingers.

There was suddenly a smattering of applause.

Harkun glanced towards the doorway and his face fell. The tension bled from his body and he seemed to curl inwards. He was as pale as a sheet, looking for all the world like a lost child.

There was no time to relish the moment. Not when Cytharat’s own mind stalled when he turned around to look at their visitor.

“D… Darth…” Harkun seemed only capable of wheezing.

“Darth Vowrawn…” Cytharat breathed.

The elderly Sith leaned against the doorway with a crooked smile. He wiggled a few fingers at them in a half-hearted wave. “Have you considered being an actor?” He smiled at Cytharat. “Playing martyr wins you many hearts.”

 

* * *

 

No. The novelty had definitely not worn off.

Harkun’s face alone could cheer him up for several rainy days.

The Zabrak—Haresh— looked at him warily but uncomprehendingly. An fresh, off-world slave, no doubt, if his name invoked such little reaction.

Ah, but Cytharat recognized him in an instant. Interesting.

“So sorry for the intrusion,” Vowrawn said. “All the excitement piqued my curiosity. It is always a pleasure to see an acolyte take his education so seriously, no?”

“As you say, my lord,” Harkun said weakly.

“Might I borrow him?”

Harkun’s mouth audibly clicked shut and he glanced back and forth between Vowrawn and Cytharat. Did the man have the stomach to swallow all that pride and answer a smile with a smile?

A grin—a grimace really—split Harkun’s face. Close enough. “He is yours, Dark Lord. May you find him as agreeable as I do.” Well, well. Bold move, overseer.

Vowrawn’s gaze drifted to Cytharat’s bald faced astonishment and then briefly on Haresh.

Resentment bled from the Zabrak like an open, festering wound but he wore his mask well enough. Such potential there, too. Quiet and insidious and familiar to Vowrawn as his own limb.

“This won’t take long,” Vowrawn said once Cytharat fell into step. “As I’m sure you’re eager to join the fray again. I take it introductions are unnecessary?”

“I… yes, Darth Vowrawn. It is an honor.”

“The honor is entirely mine, dear boy,” Vowrawn purred. “I am rarely afforded the time to mingle with acolytes but it is always refreshing to find one with such passion and avant-garde. Between you and me…” He lowered his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “The empire could stand to have more of you.”

The young Sith cracked a smile and Vowrawn counted it a victory.

He led them further down the hall and into to the academy’s cantina—empty, always curiously empty— where they settled comfortably on a couch. Or he did anyway.

Cytharat carefully put distance between them and kept his spine perfectly straight. He kept his eyes lowered, deferential and attentive, while Vowrawn’s mouth started running on autopilot.

Such a dutiful, well-mannered son of the empire.

A dime a dozen. How droll.

Where was the initiative he saw?

Cytharat chuckled softly at something he said and—

What was he saying? “—cient history, of course. You should thank your stars Overseer Ragate only administers the rite. The mortality rate of Sith purebloods increased under her tutelage no thanks to me.” Gossip. Hmph. Gravus was right. He could write an entire series of holomagazines.

“You know, it’s positively criminal that we haven’t been acquainted yet,” Vowrawn said abruptly.

Cytharat blinked the glaze from his eyes. “We have met before. Once.”

“Oh? I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“I was only a boy then,” Cytharat said. “It was at a party celebrating Darth Ananta’s sixtieth birthday.”

Vowrawn stifled a laugh. His dear aunt had been celebrating her sixtieth birthday for almost four decades now. He’d be hard pressed to pick one face from swarming partygoers—not least because he’d been blind drunk more often than not.

“Cytharat, Cytharat, Cytharat…” Vowrawn hummed as he racked his brain. The name had come attached to someone that was certainly not a child then. Someone of note. Someone he had bothered to remember, fuzzy outline notwithstanding.

His eyes drew to the intricate gold bar clamped to the bridge of his nose. There were stories in the bits and baubles a Sith pureblood wore and it was a mark of pride that Cytharat stubbornly kept his.

Trying his best not to ogle, Vowrawn managed to translate bits of the High Sith he could decipher—something, something, valor and honor and… “to live is to serve”… the empire? No, that term represented a more abstract concept—ah! “the greater good”.

Yes… he’d heard that before. Not spoken at him precisely but… whispered against his skin. He remembered the brandy fogging up the air between two bodies. Hands clumsily navigating through robes while he laughed, head full of fluff, at how clever this man was calling him his greater good while he sank to his knees, pulled down his trousers, and—

Oh. _Oh._

“Yes…” Vowrawn dragged the word out into two syllables. His eyes flicked away from Cytharat’s jewelry. “That’s right. Your… father was there.” Doing very unfatherly things in dark corners.

“You knew my father well?” Cytharat asked, giving a start.

Vowrawn regarded him with a tight smile. “We were well-acquainted, he and I.”

“I see.”

“Surprised?”

Cytharat’s eyes dimmed. “My father was dedicated to his work. He was a man of solitude who lived as he died in glorious servitude to the Empire. I am honored to carry on his legacy. Acquaintances were… rare.” There was as much passion and candor in his voice as a loaf of bread. He might as well have been reciting a dictionary. His father must have been a complete stranger to him.

A terrible shame. Such raw intellect and strength deserved to be honed by the best. Cytharat should never be left wanting.

“Socializing with the unsociable happens to be a gift of mine,” Vowrawn said. “Perks of being an extrovert.”

“As you say, my lord.”

Oh dear. He hit a nerve.

“Forgive me but I should return to my training.” Cytharat suddenly rising to his feet. “My trials…”

“Of course, of course. You’ve more important business than listening to an old man natter the day away.”

Cytharat looked utterly thunderstruck. “My lord, you more than that. You stand amongst the greatest Sith. You are a pillar of the empire. It is wisdom you speak and it is honor that I feel in attending to you. I am _yours_. I am—”

Vowrawn pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him before he could draw breath.

 _Mmph._ He could stand to hear that in a more private setting.

“I think I can squeeze you in somewhere,” the older Sith purred and pressed a kiss to the corner of Cytharat’s mouth.

Cytharat’s eyes went comically wide and his mouth moved soundlessly for a minute.

Vowrawn watched him carefully, patiently waiting to see how his message would be received.

Another minute passed and Cytharat remained unresponsive.

With a heavy sigh, Vowrawn rose to his feet to leave but a hand suddenly closed around his wrist.

Bemused, he looked at Cytharat who immediately let go of him and clasped his arms behind his back.

“If… if you will have me, my lord,” he mumbled.

Vowrawn chuckled.

The young man beat a hasty retreat to the door and Vowrawn waited until he was out of sight before he followed, a skip in his step. He was pass the door when someone behind him spoke.

“‘Well-acquainted’? Is that what you call it now?”

Vowrawn tipped his head down with a smirk. “It’s poor etiquette to tell someone you’ve fornicated with their father,” he said without turning.

“I would have told him.”

Vowrawn laughed and faced his companion. “Of course you would. You’re beastly.”

Gravus’s lip curled and he pushed away from the wall. “Going to send him a dinner invitation?”

“You’re not invited,” Vowrawn retorted.

“Yet.”

Vowrawn held his knowing look for all of five seconds before he relented with a smile. “Yet,” he amended. For now, Cytharat was his and his alone to enjoy. Nothing stimulated intellect like a generously spiced meal.

And if the night took them out of the dining room and into his bedchamber…

Well.

It wouldn’t be the first time he served dessert there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! All my WIPs (including this fic) are posted more frequently over on my tumblr in bite-sized chunks. So if you'd like to spare yourself the (additional) wait, you can drop by [@snootysith](https://snootysith.tumblr.com). I have a more rounded idea how this fic will end now so it shouldn't take as long to update future chapters.

News traveled fast.

Darth Vowrawn’s appearance had not gone unnoticed and his interest in Cytharat had left its mark. Harkun avoided Cytharat like the plague, taking care to mince words when he was forced to address him, and Cytharat welcomed the change but only just. The overseer was not about to bend backwards for him so easily– not after all the hard work he put into being an excellent bastard—but Vowrawn’s favoritism relegated him out of death traps and into the safety of the library like a coddled child. Even now as the Trials approached, Cytharat felt no more prepared than he did to begin with and his shame was only truly complete when he was forced to attend Harkun’s speeches and face the brunt of Haresh’s hostility.

“The eyes of the empire are upon us.” Harkun paced in front of his desk, arms clasped behind his back. “Sith—true Sith—will be arriving in search of new blood. An apprenticeship is more than you lot deserve—” He swept a disdainful look at their stony faces. “– so don’t expect a single shred of mercy if you hope to see another day. You approach the first of your many trials. You know what must be done. Get. Out. Of. My. Sight.”

At last. All those days spent poring over ancient maps of the tombs, attending to Lord Temereth’s every fickle instruction, and suffering sycophants and malcontents alike would finally pay off. Cytharat yearned desperately for action, his eyes staring straight into the middle-distance of infinite possibilities. He barely heeded Harkun’s words until Haresh bumped past him. 

Then he wished he hadn’t.

“Your trial will be in the library, boy,” Harkun said, smiling coldly. “Writing up an analysis of Naga Sadow’s battle tactics during the Great Hyperspace War. We wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face of yours. After all, where would you be without it?”  

Cytharat’s hands curled and uncurled, joints popping, nails digging into his palm. He could spit back insults with impunity now. He wanted to. Badly. Perhaps he’d earn little more than a slap on the wrist for attacking the overseer if he pushed his luck. But that damnably smug look on Harkun’s face… 

Cytharat swallowed down his anger and let it boil in his belly. They both knew he wouldn’t give Harkun the satisfaction. Seething, he turned on his heel and departed for the library.

It didn’t take long until he received an invitation to dinner.

The message sat in his inbox for hours as Cytharat lay in his bunk, nursing a headache and contemplating his datapad in the rare quiet hours of the morning. It was not a question of acceptance. An aspiring Sith did not simply turn down a Dark Councilor. Besides which, his mother always kept one finger on the pulse of Imperial gossip and would personally wring his neck if he didn’t go along; never mind Vowrawn’s not-so innocent intentions— and Vowrawn had made his intentions abundantly clear.

Cytharat could lie to others but not to himself. He felt his cheeks flush hot, a heady mix of embarrassment and arousal at the thought of all the ways the dinner could end.

He ought to have more misgivings. 

Darth Vowrawn had a reputation. It was hard to discern where exaggeration began and ended. Cytharat had heard tales of wild orgies, of macabre rituals, of butchered siblings, and so much more. Each one unspeakably horrid and lurid as the next. Vowrawn had been gossip fodder from the highest to the lowest rungs of Imperial society for years.

Many, many years.

He had been on the Dark Council well before Cytharat had even been born and he had surely remained there with great cunning and deceit. But Cytharat couldn’t fathom how he could earn a knife in his throat after rolling over and baring it. Compared to Vowrawn’s House, his was little more than a shack held together by strings of distant relations. Was Vowrawn so secure in his power that he would dare risk associating with him? After what his father–

Cytharat flinched and immediately banished the thought from his mind. Darth Vowrawn had laid a path that would take him far from such disgrace. He need only follow it. Carefully. 

 

* * *

 

Across the Valley of the Dark Lords, a metropolis sprawled across the desert like a glittering mirage. Indeed, there was more sand to be found drifting through the streets than life as the pervasive, despairing miasma of Korriban tended to spook off the unprepared and unassuming. It was no vacation retreat but that never stopped stubborn Sith Lords from erecting homesteads on their ancestral homeworld. Unfortunately, Vowrawn counted members of his own family among them.

Such a hideous old house they built. 

Only a durasteel endoskeleton kept the bloated stone fortress from crumbling long ago. Thick pillars rose from the sands and lined the paved driveway, terminating at the base of a towering greenhouse that encroached the house like a transparisteel tumor. Somewhere, his great-great-great-great grandmother was rolling in her sarcophagus at the architectural atrocity– but it made do. 

Darth Vowrawn swiveled his high-backed chair away from the window, returning his attention to the security cam footage on the holographic interface. His apprentices puttered around, cracking the whip over servants bustling and sprucing up the compound to Vowrawn’s satisfaction. Someone like Gravus would be quick to notice it did not meet his usual standard but it ought to be enough to impress Cytharat without embarrassing him. 

Politics would be sitting at the forefront of Cytharat’s mind but Vowrawn had every intention of keeping him well-distracted. Though he wished he had the luxury himself nowadays. 

Sliding his eyes away, Vowrawn fondly regarded the tinted projection of Darth Marr hovering over his desk like a broody cactus. “Could I perhaps interest you in a private soirée?” Vowrawn asked. “I’ve found a promising new acolyte on Korriban. I would welcome your input and I’m certain the young man would take you in stride.” And take  _him_  as well if he played his cards just right. 

Marr crossed his arms. “Is that why you were so vexed during our meeting?”

“Contrary to what you might believe, I do not spend every waking moment causing mayhem,” Vowrawn said dryly. “It takes practice to be this charming– and you’d be treated to the whole package and more tonight. Think on it, darling. More importantly, think of me.” 

“The timing leaves much to be desired…” Marr paused. His fingers subtly tightened on his arm.  _Realization._  “Does this have something to do with Baras and his new apprentice?”

 _Damn._  Not even Gravus picked up on the connection. Vowrawn fancied himself an aficionado when it came to translating Marr’s body language but the man could still surprise him. “I don’t much care for your tone,” Vowrawn drawled. “In any case, I’m not the only one with a thorn in my side. How fares the Ministry of War, hm?”

Fingers tapped a quick, agitated rhythm on his bicep. “Decimus is adjusting to his new role but Vengean… I do not care for his bloodlust. If your intel is accurate, he will find a way to deal a preemptive strike against the Republic with or without the Dark Council’s compliance.” 

“We should indulge him!” Vowrawn said. “If only to keep his leash in our grip.”

“And not Baras’s.” 

“And not Baras’s, yes.” Vowrawn refused to surrender even an inch to that man. 

Marr lapsed into a pensive silence. His stance shifted. His fingers curled inwards, tucking into his arm.  _Trepidation. Concern._  “If Baras discovers your hand in this–”

“He will not.”

“But if he did–”

“It is a necessary risk, my dear.” 

“If he is cause for concern…” Marr said slowly. “If the two of you should come to open conflict, I will rally to your side.”

“No.” The good-humor in Vowrawn’s voice dropped sharply, his face a severe mask. “You will do no such thing. It is not a matter of ‘if’, it is 'when’. And when it should happen, you must distance yourself. I will not have you standing in the crossfire and handing Baras free rein of the empire.”

“I have the resources to defend you.”

Of that he was certain and he wouldn’t be entirely surprised if Marr spearheaded the vanguard either. The thought of it chipped away the stony edges of his heart and his smile returned in full bloom. “I am perfectly capable of protecting myself, thank you, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Marr took a deep breath, undoubtably to sling more arguments as he’d been doing the past hour, but by a stroke of luck Qet’s image materialized beside him on the holoprojecter. “I apologize for the interruption, master, but Lord Cytharat awaits you in the library.”

“Oh?” My, the boy was early. Someone was excited. “I will see to him shortly. Carry on with your errands.” 

“Your acolyte, I take it,” Marr said once Qet disappeared. “I will leave you to whet your appetite in peace but we will resume this discussion another time. You will you consider my proposal until then?”

“It depends.” There was a glint of mischief in Vowrawn’s eyes. “Will you consider mine?”

“I am a busy man, Vowrawn.”

“I didn’t hear a yes or no in there.”

Marr sighed deeply. “I have no interest in robbing cradles–”

“Now  _really_! He’s hardly a child–”

“– nor in exposing myself to perfect strangers. But…” Marr hesitated. “I do not find a quiet dinner alone with you to be disagreeable. If you will have me.”

Decades of emotional conditioning slammed in place before Vowrawn’s surprise made itself evident, but he couldn’t quite scrub the uncomfortable stutter in his laugh. “That… ah… could be arranged,” he managed. He had to leave this conversation.  _Now._  “I shouldn’t keep my guest waiting. Poor thing must be a nervous wreck. You will keep me apprised of Vengean, yes? Of course you will.”

A note of uncertainty crept in Marr’s voice. “Vowrawn–”

“Don’t let me detain you, dear! Mustn’t tarry!” He promptly deactivated the holocomm and slumped back in his chair with a tired sigh, rubbing his eyes. Marr expected something that Vowrawn was not prepared to give. Not after Gravus. What a rotten way to start an evening.

Vowrawn glanced back to the security footage, pinpointing the library, smiling as he watched Cytharat navigate the maze of shelves like a wide-eyed pup. It seemed a distraction was to be his own remedy as well tonight. 

 

* * *

 

_What was he doing here?_

Once the speeder touched ground, Cytharat descended from it as though in a trance, staring blankly up at House Vowrawn’s crest painted over the entryway. He needed no introductions with inadequacy– it was an old friend he kept– but never had it made him feel this small. As if he wore rags and not silks. As if the blood pumping in his veins was water-thin. As if his very existence was no different from the speck of sand on his boot.

Cytharat was barely even aware of the security guards ushering him into the vestibule and vetting him down. They finally allowed him to step out of his shoes and tidy up with the sink installed in the eastern wall beside the shoe cubbies. The splash of cold water dragged him up from the unfeeling depths and the magnitude of his predicament hit him harder than Haresh’s vibroblade ever could. Cytharat kept his head bowed low over the sink, hands gripping the countertop white-knuckle tight, his stomach twisting in anxious knots. Far from the academy, under a Dark Councilor’s roof, preparing to nose his way into his good graces like his own pathetic toadies, willing to lie back and– and–

_The sultry undertone in Vowrawn’s voice… the heat in his eyes as he delivered a kiss on his mouth…_

What was he doing here? What was he doing here? What was he doing here? Wh–

“When my master sets a time frame, the only person allowed to flout it is himself.”

Cytharat nearly leapt out of his skin at the unfamiliar voice behind him. He turned, water dripping from his facial tendrils, and was greeted by a surly man in gray. From his bearing and the way the guards now dithered about like skittish birds, it didn’t take a genius to guess who he was. “Lord Qet?” 

“You,“ Qet said, “are lucky Darth Vowrawn doesn’t keep pets out in the cold.”

Cytharat hid his glower in a towel as he wiped down his face. Every rose had its thorn– Qet-shaped or otherwise– and this new one was apparently his escort. He led him into the main hall, permitting him only a few seconds to gawk at the floor-to-ceiling high painted portrait that stood on the landing before ushering him westward, turning corner after corner, passing rows of Kittât-etched pillars lining the hallways, until they finally came to a stop in front of a pair of double doors.  
  
Qet jerked his head towards it.

Cytharat took a deep breath and smoothed down the front of his robes. No turning back. He opened the hinged door and stared inside for several heartbeats. Then he shut it. “This is not a dining room,” he said blankly. It wasn’t even a bedroom, unless of course Darth Vowrawn’s rumored depravities extended to fornicating in libraries.   
  
Qet raised an eyebrow. “Did you expect my master to trip over himself for you? Please. You aren’t his first and you certainly won’t be his last. Now be a good boy and wait here.” He all but shoved Cytharat inside, ignoring his protests and shut the door squarely in his face. Cytharat tried the handle but it didn’t give. Locked. The bastard. 

Slumped against the door, Cytharat turned his gaze around the room and sighed. At least he wouldn’t be lacking in diversions until then. So much knowledge at his fingertips. Smaller than what the academy held but he had no doubt in his mind it would still take months to navigate it all. His fingers trailed the spines of holobooks along the narrow passage until he wandered out into a study. Elegance without gaudiness. This was a family who wore their wealth comfortably for generations.

And it was made plain for Cytharat to see in red paint. 

Streaked across the expanse of an entire wall, every name and line bleeding from a single progenitor and zigzagging down like a maze of arteries– House Vowrawn’s family tree. Cytharat stared, drinking in such grandeur with wonder and no small amount of envy. To be intrinsically tied to the Sith Empire… to be the paradigm that all others aspired… to hold his head up high…  
  
Cytharat’s birthright was that of disgrace. His father had been braver in death than he ever was in life, begging for execution to spare his family from the blood purge as tradition dictated but even so, they walked the fine line between wealth and bankruptcy, having a title but very little else.    
  
And Vowrawn offered a way out. 

Cytharat traced a path towards the stretch of names where the paint was most fresh, frowning when a part of it disappeared behind heavy drapes, but upon pulling them back, he was surprised to find a door.  
  
To his relief, it opened without protest and he stepped out into a balcony, crossing the threshold where the greenhouse met the stronghold and suddenly it was as if he was transported to an entirely different planet. He had assumed the heavily tinted windows were to deter meddlers but the lush tropical garden that filled it was surely a treasure worth hiding. Like an oasis in a desolate sea of sand just in his reach.  
  
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” drawled a familiar voice.   
  
Cytharat flushed, finding himself fixed beneath Vowrawn’s penetrating gaze. He stood in the doorway clad in an ochre-yellow tunic and a pair of dark trousers. His smile was open and bright but in his crimson eyes there seemed to lurk a tantalizing secret. Cytharat had the disquieting sense that he had been watching him.  
  
“Yes, my lord,” he replied. “I had no idea you possessed a Nûrsot tree.” He indicated the stout tree standing inside a circle of Nindzu shrubs drooping heavily with round fruit.   
  
Vowrawn laughed. “For all my influence, I can no more claim a Nûrsot tree than I could wrestle a terentatek. No, this handsome fellow is a hybrid. I have been assured that the flavor of the fruit is as close to the original as possible. The leaves… well, they won’t kill the likes of us but they will ruin your appetite. I wouldn’t recommend it.” Vowrawn gave him a roguish wink and he cracked a smile. “I did not expect your arrival so soon.”  
  
Cytharat bowed his head. “My apologies. I anticipated a screening process but I had no way of knowing how long it would take.”  
  
“Very wise.”   
  
Cytharat’s cheeks warmed. “You have a wonderful garden. I’ve never seen any of its kind on Korriban.”  
  
“This? This is my brother’s garden.  _Was_  his garden, I suppose. He was always happiest when he was mucking about in the dirt. I never had a green thumb for it myself but I do admire the results.” Darth Vowrawn sounded almost rueful.   
  
Curiosity tickled his interest but the moment passed when Vowrawn moved to prop himself on the balustrade, leaning back against the edge without a care. Cytharat itched to grab him before he fell but settled with pressing close to his side. Just in case.    
  
“It is interesting, isn’t it?“ Vowrawn asked suddenly. “Why our academies reward obedience when the core of our code demands initiative? There is method to the madness. Plucking weeds, certainly, but any decent apprentice must adapt to survive harsh environments or…” He turned his enigmatic smile upon him. “Exhibit traits worth cultivating.”  
  
“Nûrsot trees cannot develop without help,” Cytharat replied, an undue sharpness in his words. “It does not lessen its importance.”   
  
“Few trees have a Nûrsot’s lineage.”  
  
“And yet it is worth preserving at the expense of genes. This is a Nûrsot in name only but it still produces fruit to eat and leaves for medicine and poison alike. Doesn’t that matter?”  
  
Vowrawn cocked his head, amused. “If I’d known you were wild about botany, I wouldn’t have bundled away my brother’s peonies.”  
  
Cytharat flushed. “I only meant–”  
  
Vowrawn laughed and bridged the gap between them. Breath caught, Cytharat’s eyes fell shut for another kiss, feeling the warmth of his breath against his skin and… nothing. Seconds ticked by without their lips meeting and Cytharat finally cracked open an eye only to find, to his confusion, Vowrawn watching him intently.  
  
Had he spoken out of turn?   
  
Cytharat hurriedly drew back and something resembling disappointment flickered in Vowrawn’s expression. He pulled away in one smooth motion, breaking whatever spell he held over Cytharat and patted his cheek goodnaturedly. “Initiative,” Vowrawn murmured.  
  
Cytharat followed him out the library, feeling as though he had failed a test. 

 

* * *

 

“Dining room” was an incredibly inadequate term when it came time to enter it. An arrangement of porcelain dinnerware waited for them at one end of the table and Vowrawn lowered himself into the head chair as Cytharat dutifully took a place at his right hand as was proper.

Servants served their appetizers, keeping their eyes and their heads low, always shuffling backwards to avoid turning their back on their master. The dishes were surprisingly simple, more commonly found on the streets than a noble’s table, but it reminded Cytharat of childhood meals at his grandmother’s estate and he blinked back tears that weren’t entirely the fault of hot peppers. 

Vowrawn pretended not to notice.

Their dinner conversation began on a easy note, touching on hobbies and education and travels, steering clear of the bantha in the room but it did nothing to ease Cytharat’s anxiety. Etiquette. Words to fill silence.  _Boring._  He was boring the single most interesting man in the empire about his  _tailor_  of all things and he wanted to scream. Cytharat settled with clawing his own knee under the table away from Vowrawn’s eyes, desperate for the pain to stave off his embarrassment.  

He needed to do…  _something_. He needed…

 _Initiative._  “What is it like on the Dark Council?”

“Are you prying for gossip about my colleagues?” Vowrawn’s eyes went comically wide. “For shame!”

It took monumental effort on Cytharat’s part not to backpedal. “Professional curiosity, my lord.”

Vowrawn laughed. “I like to think I stir some vigor in those dull meetings.”

“Dull?”

“It does seem rather exciting, doesn’t it? Shaping the inner workings of the empire? It was for me. At first. Then the novelty wore off, but a man must find excitement his own way. Why the sudden interest? Do you have eyes on a seat already? Which one?”

“I… cannot say. I’ve always felt military strategy to be my strong suit but I do not think I could lead so far from a battlefield. Not always at any rate.”

Vowrawn laughed. “You and Darth Marr are of one mind. He sits in a throne like he was made for it but, oh, how he  _squirms_! I suspect you wouldn’t care for it either. Finding a collective voice among the council is a bit like shepherding cats. The hissy fits make for good entertainment though.”

“You don’t seem the kind of person suited to such company.”

“Much as  _you_  aren’t suited to such an overseer.”

Cytharat’s throat tightened. “Be that as it may, my lord, nothing less than Korriban would suffice. My mother has high hopes for me.” There were other academies, other overseers, who would have granted him more privileges, more respect– but those other academies did not play a part in his family history. He refused to break that time-honored cycle even if that meant trudging through refuse.

Vowrawn laughed and smoothly crossed his legs. “Such a dutiful son. Your family must bring you such joy.” 

Cytharat smiled thinly. “I love them.” Before Vowrawn could sink his teeth deeper, Cytharat pulled a small box from the slit of his robes and offered it to him.

“You shouldn’t have!” Delighted, Vowrawn tore into his gift like a boy on Life Day morning and crooned over the neat little rows of chocolate truffles. “No! Can it be?” He brought one of the truffles to his face and sniffed. “ _Hyalottoi_  chocolate! I would know the house specialty anywhere! How did you know they were my favorite chocolatier?”

Anyone worth their salt knew premier chocolate was synonymous with  _Hyalottoi_. Only the wealthiest Imperial could afford the selection and Cytharat nearly emptied his savings to buy a measly six truffles. He could have easily bought a Kaas City apartment with the credits he spent but it would be well-worth the investment if he fell deeper into Darth Vowrawn’s good graces. “Intuition.”

Vowrawn mulled over his first pick when Qet suddenly materialized at his elbow. He regarded Cytharat with little more than a faint sneer. “Darth Gravus has an urgent message for you, master,” he said.

Vowrawn glanced at the holocomm in his outstretched hand but made no indication of taking it. “If he is dying, tell him to wire my winnings directly into my bank account or I will personally rip his spirit from the Force. Otherwise, kindly inform him to sod off. I am entertaining a guest, Lord Qet, and I value privacy. Were my instructions unclear?”

Qet flinched as though Vowrawn physically struck him but he soldiered on in a tight voice. “My apologies, master, but he insisted this is purely business. Darth Arctis is refusing to budge on his plans for excavating ruins on Taris.”

“It’s a whole planet of ruins. Surely Gravus can persuade him to turn elsewhere.”

“As you say, but these ruins are buried under the Toxic Lake Garrison—”

Vowrawn sighed. 

“– which, as you know, is where Imperial headquarters is located so this does put Darth Gravus in a delicate situation…”

Vowrawn shot a meaningful look at Cytharat. “Tell the man to broker a compromise. I will facilitate any additional resources in compensation—ah!” He snapped his fingers. “He wanted more military specialists, correct?” At Qet’s nod, he waved him away. “Push the requisition to the front of the queue. I will deal with Arctis another day. Now… am I permitted to play host?” 

Qet’s mouth pursed and he bowed deeply at the waist. He made to exit as discreetly as he entered.

“Wait.” Vowrawn presented him with a chocolate truffle. “Say  _‘ahh’_.”

Without any hesitation, Qet opened his mouth and closed his lips on Vowrawn’s fingers. He didn’t even have the prudence to blush, as though being hand-fed by his master was no different than eating off a plate. 

“Don’t gobble it down,” Vowrawn chided. 

Cytharat watched this bizarre display in stiff silence, his confusion mounting when Qet responded with little more than a shrug.

Vowrawn nodded thoughtfully. “That will be all, Qet. Be a good boy and head off to bed now. Chop, chop.” 

The remark struck a chord, a barb Qet had thrown not even an hour ago, and instinctively Cytharat glanced over to him. Qet’s face went red and he fixed him with a telling glare over his master’s head daring him to speak. Cytharat’s cheek twitched but it was enough to send Qet storming out the room. How such a miserable character found his way into Darth Vowrawn’s tutelage was beyond his comprehension.

“Care for a bite, too?” Vowrawn raised another truffle to Cytharat’s lips. Cytharat opened his mouth to politely decline and nearly choked on the treat when Vowrawn cheerfully plugged his mouth with it. “Eat! I insist.”

Cytharat could do nothing but obey, crunching on the sweet confection, champagne bursting from the sweet center and blending with rich, buttery chocolate. The flavor was so intense, so sumptuous he sucked at Vowrawn’s fingertips for another taste before he realized what he was doing. 

Vowrawn watched his lips with something terribly like interest and heat flooded Cytharat’s face.

He dragged his mouth away mumbling apologies.

Upon later reflection, perhaps Darth Vowrawn had been testing for poison.

The box sat between their plates, each truffle vanishing for every course that passed their table, embarrassment becoming a distant memory as Vowrawn delivered a charming spiel about his former days in the Sith Academy while Cytharat listened in utter rapture. He dared to inquire about Darth Gravus. By any stretch of imagination, it seemed uncommon for anyone outside the Dark Council to call on Darth Vowrawn so easily. Less common still to have that same Dark Councilor indulge them with only a moment’s thought.

Cytharat said as much and Vowrawn laughed.

“We attended the Korriban academy together,“ Vowrawn said. “Different overseers, of course, but in my day lessons were less… disjointed. It was all before the war, you see. A different curriculum. A different empire for that matter. Things have changed a great deal but Darth Gravus remains as dear to me now as he did then. I do intend for you to meet him but… not yet. He can be a bit  _much_.”

“I would be honored to meet him,” Cytharat blurted. “I’ve been keeping abreast of the war effort on Taris. To meet with Darth Gravus would be– I’ve longed to– er…” His resolve faltered when he caught sight of the odd smile on Vowrawn’s face. “T-that is to say I admire his military prowess. My own personal desires are inconsequential.”    

“No, no! Do tell me. What is it you desire?” Vowrawn asked. 

Cytharat blinked, a flush creeping up his neck. 

Vowrawn’s mouth twitched. “Of the empire,” he elaborated. 

Oh. “To… restore my family’s honor.” To his relief, Vowrawn did not pry. He must have known already. Most everyone did but few had tact and Cytharat was grateful Vowrawn employed it.

“A noble cause,” Vowrawn said. “But it is not yours. Not truly.” 

“My mother–”

“If I was interested in your mother’s opinion, I would not have invited you,” Vowrawn interrupted. “There is no need to stand on ceremony when it is just the two of us.”

“I… I don’t know yet… my lord.” Cytharat faltered. His desires would sound presumptuous to a Sith of Vowrawn’s caliber yet why would he question Cytharat’s future if he approved of such resignation? He could not imagine such a man being resigned to anything. 

“I sense you will aspire to be something greater than a repository of hopes and dreams. Tell me what you wish, not what others expect of you.” Vowrawn held his eyes in a trance, his voice dropping to an alluring purr. 

Cytharat’s lower robes bunched so tightly in his fists his hands trembled. No one had ever asked this of him. Not Harkun. Not mother. Not anyone. It felt wrong somehow. Indecent. But the easy smile on Vowrawn’s face coaxed the words free almost of their own volition. “I want to be more than… this.” He touched the gold bracket on his nose. “I seek fulfilment. In life, in glory, and in love. For my empire and for… someone to share that with.”

“Truly?”

“Truly.”

“Noble. Very noble. Others might call it idealistic.”

Cytharat frowned. “Others do not have the empire’s best interests at heart. Is it so shameful wanting to be part of something bigger? I do not understand why something must be complicated to be considered meaningful. If I see a problem, I confront it. If I desire something, I take it.” 

Vowrawn studied him with a strange smile. 

Cytharat’s mouth parted when a hand reached out to caress his cheek. 

“You’re right,” Vowrawn said softly. “A dose of simplicity can be enough.”

Confusion flickered across Cytharat’s face. “My lord?”

Vowrawn’s eyes were warm and intent as his hand came to rest on his neck, palm cupped against his frenzied pulse, thumb tracing his jawline. Cytharat inhaled sharply and held his gaze. Anxious, yes, but so very eager to please. 

“I think…” Vowrawn rose from his chair. “It is time for dessert.” 

 

* * *

 

There was barely time to undress before Cytharat found himself staring up at the ceiling of the four-poster bed, lower robes gathered up and twisted in his hands while his legs turned to jelly under Vowrawn’s attentive care. 

What Vowrawn lacked in agility, he more than compensated in technique. 

A whimper tumbled from Cytharat’s mouth as he felt a hot breath ghost against his prick. Vowrawn dragged his thumb over the slick crown of his cock, reveling in Cytharat’s pleasure, watching with a keen eye at the way his mouth went slack, how his eyes rolled back as he shuddered, and— _oh_ —the ruddiness in his cheeks. How precious. It was sweet enough to see how he affected the boy. It was sweeter still to watch him squirm and try to be so gracious, so good, even for this.  _Despite_  this. 

Cytharat never snapped his hips forward. He never seized Vowrawn by his hair. He never spoke. He didn’t need to. There was a frantic plea in his eyes as he looked down at Vowrawn kneeling at the foot of the bed, too proud even now to beg for release except obliquely. His eyes were fixed on the wet seam of his lips around his cock, the loose, sloppy glide of his mouth as Vowrawn swallowed him down with practiced ease. 

It was positively obscene to watch such a noble specimen crumble to temptation. It made Vowrawn’s mouth water. It made him want to push Cytharat just to see how much further he could bend.

A shuddering orgasm rippled through Cytharat’s body, warmth filling Vowrawn’s mouth just as quickly and abruptly as Cytharat muffled a moan behind his hand. Vowrawn drew back, dabbing come from his mouth with the air of a mildly inconvenienced connoisseur, and was not entirely surprised to see Cytharat still  _rose_  to the occasion.  _Ah, to be young again._

Dazed, Cytharat half-rose from the bed and reached for him but Vowrawn simply pushed him back down and straddled his hips.

“Now, now… delicacies must be savored,” Vowrawn purred. “ _Hyalottoi_  or otherwise.”

“But I– I want to please you–”

“Of course you do I’m irresistible and, incidentally, always right.” He tapped the side of his nose with a wink.

Cytharat managed a stiff nod then lurched forward like a drunk fool when Vowrawn bent to peck his cheek. Not only did his lips miss their mark but they came dangerously close to colliding foreheads. Vowrawn narrowly avoided being cold-clocked and laughter bubble free as he rubbed his well-smooched nose. “Not quite the exchange I had in mind.”

Mortified, Cytharat’s emotional defenses slammed into place. The feelings welling up inside him were too much, too confusing, entirely too strange for him to bear. A stream of apologies burst forth only to be stemmed by the press of fingers on his lips. 

“Hush,” Vowrawn said. “Your pleasure is my pleasure. You seek to please me? Then give me this.” He rocked in a sinuous back and forth motion, smiling as he felt the telltale prod against his thigh. “Let me feel you, dear boy.” 

Cytharat won’t–  _can’t_  be pulled about so easily. Success hinged upon Vowrawn’s continued interest and a man such as he would not be content with an easy victory– nor with just a good boy, he thought, envisioning Qet. “No.” He forced his eyes upwards, collecting his courage like grass in a desert. 

Vowrawn met his gaze evenly. “No?”

“No,” Cytharat repeated. “I– I want to… to undress you first.”

Vowrawn’s mouth twitched and Cytharat braced for more laughter. However, Vowrawn merely shuffled backwards on his knees to let him sit up.

It was a veritable miracle Darth Vowrawn hadn’t lost his patience. Cytharat’s fingers shook badly as they worked down Vowrawn’s tunic slipping off every clasp but each anxious glance into Vowrawn’s face found only an encouraging smile so he soldiered on until Vowrawn’s clothes fell open and pooled on the floor.

For a time there was only reverent silence as Cytharat drank in every inch of crimson skin, every glittering piercing that adorned his body from his face down to his–

Cytharat swallowed. Hard. 

“Well?” There was a note of amusement in Vowrawn’s voice. “Do I meet with your approval?”

Mouth dry, Cytharat could only muster a nod.

“How will you have me?”

A loaded question leading to many satisfactory conclusions but Cytharat was in no state of mind for complex thought beyond the ache between his legs. “On your back.”  _Please._

Vowrawn smiled like a cat that caught the canary. “Certainly.”

Cytharat swallowed around the lump in his throat as he watched Vowrawn stretch out on the lush bed and prop himself up on the mountain of silk pillows. Such an elegant body. Unlike many other Sith his age, there was still grace left in him; a strength in his wiry muscles owed to discipline and carefully cultivated Sith breeding.

Cytharat couldn’t bring himself to look away. He crawled forward, eyes traveling the length of his naked body, and it was a mark of Vowrawn’s magnanimity that his touch was allowed to follow. He lingered over a pair of crescent-shaped scars on Vowrawn’s right shoulder but before he could voice his curiosity, his wrist was caught in a firm but gentle grip and dragged to the stiff arch of Vowrawn’s cock instead.

“You are entirely too overdressed,” Vowrawn declared, pawing the front of Cytharat’s robes with his other hand. “I trust you have initiative to spare. Won’t you show me?”

In all his fantasies, Cytharat could not have pictured this position between a Dark Councilor and a Sith acolyte. 

After careful consideration, he realized he could really care less. 

“ _Mm_ … yes, that’s lovely…” Vowrawn sighed and tipped his head back, wrapping his legs around his waist, savoring the initial penetration with a slow roll of his hips. Cytharat bit his lip and watched his cock slide into him inch by inch. Not only did Darth Vowrawn have the forethought to prepare himself beforehand but he took him so easily, leaving him aching, and forcing a ragged moan out of him.

Cytharat breath came uneven and harsh as Vowrawn pushed to meet his thrusts halfway. What a sight he must make, curled over a Dark Councilor, breathless, his carefully honed self-control slipping through his fingers like sand. The noises coming from his throat were obscene. They couldn’t possibly belong to him. No one else must ever know he sounded like this.

“Darling boy,” Vowrawn crooned, heels digging harder into his lower back. “Don’t be shy. I won’t break.”

Cytharat’s shaking fingers dug into Vowrawn’s dusky red skin. He thrust, his hips devolving into a wild rut and his grip tightening on Vowrawn’s straining thighs. To let an acolyte guide a Dark Councilor to such heights of pleasure– how many were given this opportunity? Truly, there was no higher privilege, no greater honor, and Cytharat intended to demonstrate his gratitude alongside his initiative. 

He plunged into him hard enough to drive Vowrawn down into the mattress, jolting his angular body in his grip. Vowrawn groaned, writhing beneath him as he pounded into him– decorum be damned. Cytharat fucked him open, full weight behind every snap of his hips, obscene wet slaps as he sank into his slick, stretched entrance. But for all his determination Vowrawn’s stamina seemed endless. Cytharat wept, half sobbing in pleasured pain as he was, in turn, wrung dry again and again.

Then at last, a moment of pity seemed to inspire Vowrawn. 

Cytharat wasn’t certain which one of them came first because his final orgasm robbed him of all remaining coherent thought, ripping the very air from his lungs, leaving him incapable of doing anything but clutch at Vowrawn like a lifeline as he cried, until he became aware of a warm wetness splattered against his lower belly. There was no time or energy for shame. Only relief. For all his wanton initiative, he had not been a selfish guest. 

Vowrawn cradled Cytharat’s head in his hands as if it were something infinitely precious and pressed a kiss to his sweaty forehead, murmuring sweet nothings in the Old Tongue, lulling him to the precipice of sleep. Cytharat could deny him nothing and yet...

He woke alone.


End file.
